


No One Breaks My Heart Like You

by danniellecj



Series: No One Breaks My Heart Like You [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Divorce, F/M, Getting Back Together, Other, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-23 07:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18544783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danniellecj/pseuds/danniellecj
Summary: There is joy in rediscovery. A familiar recognition of all the parts of you. The you, in the old photographs, in long lines of hidden shelves, the taste of strawberries, the scent of flowers. For Mary Jane Watson, it starts when she opens to door to Peter Parker, a year and a half later.





	No One Breaks My Heart Like You

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a supposed "short" one-shot from MJ's perspective from the 3-minute introduction of Peter B.'s character. I tried to work on it last January but I had a lot of things on my plate so I wasn't able to prioritize it, despite the constant nagging in my head. Finally, after going through a few early comics, I decided it'd best benefit the story if I expanded it to a chaptered series. I love MJ so much and am very excited to see where this takes me.

When they ask her about him, Mary Jane smiles widely. Rarely do interviewers ever ask about her husband, Peter Parker. Sure, the news talks about him every day as Spider-Man. The friendly neighborhood vigilante. A menace. A hero.

To everyone else, he is the nerdy science teacher at Midtown High. The part-time photographer at the Daily Bugle, best known for his Spider-Man photos. His students occasionally like him, his colleagues groan at the dumb jokes over in the morning. Jameson coughs in his cigar and mumbles about Parker’s inconsistent shots.

For Mary Jane Watson-Parker? Her green eyes look down at the silver ring on her left finger and smiles, softly. “He’s amazing,” she says, ardently.

The interviewers would ask for other details, about how they met, when did they fall in love and does he ever cope well with her being that super-model, award-winning theatre actress? She answers them as patiently as she can.

They were childhood playmates. (Aww.)

Their aunts set them-up. (A snicker from the photographer. Cue the eye rolling.)

It wasn’t love at first sight, but it surely was a first sight. The rest is history. (One long, complicated history.)

(She doesn’t tell them of the night Ben Parker died and how Peter had come out of the house, on a lust for revenge. Doesn’t tell them of their best friend, Gwen Stacy, -the most gorgeous genius she had ever laid eyes on-, whose death haunts them both on the worst of days. Doesn’t tell them that on the worst of days, he puts on his mask and carries on. Like she did and does. They both carry on together.

Heavy hearts, dark circles and weary arms. Sleepless nights, broken bones, mascara stains, bruised lips and that crooked nose they often excuse on his door problem. She makes sure to kiss it before he goes out, every night. A firm reminder. She will be waiting. As he does too, for her in the day, in every lobby, at the backstage, in a sea of people and outside the door.)

The interviewers would nod. Jotting her words in their shorthand writings. The voice recorder still running. MJ always makes the rare occasion of mentioning Peter, worthwhile. After all, how often does he ever read good things about himself in the papers nowadays?

He stays away from the mess of a social media, for the most part. (Although sometimes, she can see him scroll through twitter full of cat photos and those spongebob caps. He’s got a notification alert for NYPD in case something comes up.)

But she makes it a point to strike one good word to everyone who had ever asked. Peter Benjamin Parker is a good man. And she married him for it.

She tells them how good he is. Inside and out. The interviewers would laugh back; wiggle at some double entendre. She rolls her eyes, but she betrays a smile and a wink, nevertheless.

They both do their best at their jobs with their masks on and come home to each other. And she is as lucky as he is. Her fellow model and actresses would roll their eyes at it but on the days when Peter shows up with a fresh bouquet of pink and red flowers at the dressing room in every rehearsal with that messy hair, soft smile, and wide brown eyes, she feels light as air.

And with every new play, show or film, he is there. They all take their bows as the crowd applauds and the cameras flashes. Her green eyes scan the crowd for him and when she spies him up front, starry-eyed brown eyes, proudly clapping amongst the crowd, she gets an immense feeling of bursting into the seams full of love.

Mary Jane Watson-Parker lives for and loves the applause, but she loves it the most when he’s among it. She waves her arm over in his direction and he acknowledges it with a soft smile.

And so, if there’s one thing Mary Jane Watson-Parker is sure of, it’s that allowing herself to love and eventually marrying Peter Benjamin Parker is one of the best decisions she’s made in her life.

And nothing gets to them.

(Not the recent bad investment that he took and put them in debt. Not the long nights at the hospital or the physical therapies because of the broken back incident. Not the nights when he limps to bed, exhausted beyond relief.)

The interviewer asks her about her slated plate for the year, a play, a film she’s rumored to be in (which she had yet to consider but Peter had encouraged her mostly because they needed the money), and she smiles that award-winning dimpled smile and tells them all is fine.

* * *

 

The city is preparing for a storm coming in tonight, but Peter had insisted on keeping patrol.

The cold winds greet her, when he comes back sometime between 2 or 3 in the morning. A harsh greeting of cold winds and rain, and Peter’s dripping wet. He closes the window hastefully, and she immediately gets up, takes the towel from the drawer and helps him removes his soaked suit.

He doesn’t protest when she wraps a bathrobe around him to keep him from freezing and dries his hair with a spare towel. His head hung low, hands on her waist to steady himself.

“I’m sorry, I woke you up.” He apologizes, his voice, strangely small.

It’s hard to make his features out in the dark but she can feel his despair running its course.

“It’s ok,” she reassures. “It’s nothing new.”

She can feel him smile back at her in the dark before he gives her a light kiss on the cheek and withdraws from her.

“Go back to bed,” he tells her, as he takes to the bathroom to shower.

She watches him go, and sighs. Outside, the rains had started to pour heavily. She picks up the wet suit to put in the laundry pile when she looks up at the calendar and sees the date.

May had looked up at them both, on her last night. Held both their hands and told them she was proud of them. Her small frail bony hands clutching theirs. “Make the most of your lives. The both of you.” She had said with all the strength that she could muster.

She pokes through the door frame of their bathroom and stares at his trembling form.

“Peter?” she asks, concerned.

“I’m fine.” He chokes out.

But he hasn’t turned to her and she can see how still he is. She strips off her nightgown and steps in. He’s got his back turned to her, the steam working its way to shield whatever else. There are the marks of every battle he’s been in on his skin. Long scratch marks that are definitely not from hers, deep scars and gashes. Carefully, she wraps her arms around his bare waist, waits until he relaxes before she presses her lips to that bare scarred skin.

He trembles even further.

The sound of the water roaring above doesn't quite contain the audible sobbing he releases along with it and she holds him tighter, skin on skin as he breaks. Grief washing over him and oh, this feels like Gwen again. And it aches so bad, he’s got one arm to steady himself and the other over her own. She closes her eyes and holds him.

Afterwards, when he's calmed down and the water is freezing; he turns around to face her.

“I’m sorry.” He starts, his voice thick with grief. But she takes none of it, wordlessly, reaches up to pull his hair over his face, cups his face with her hands and kisses him.

“Shhh,” she hushes against his lips, holding him close to her. “I’m here.”

He trembles, still and she plants the words as she does the night Gwen had died. “I’m here for you, tiger.”

She plants a kiss on his bare wet shoulder. 

“I love you.” She reminds him.

The smile he gives her is enough. She kisses him again, and he responds back, ardently, apologetically. Holds her close and gently pins her against the wall. Heat slides over her skin, his lips soft and warm over her lips, on her nose, her cheeks, down in the skin of her neck, over her heart, the valley of her breasts, her stomach and the spot between her hips. She grips on his hair as a strangled moan escapes her and she pulls him back up to kiss him.

He makes up with all that he can and she accepts with gratitude. Later when she pulls him up and guides him to her, through the howling of the winds and the roll of thunder, they cling to each other, seeking home.

She holds him to her chest in bed after, listening to the distant rain, their breathing evening out and stares at the ceiling.

It occurs to her that she's the only family he has left and wonders if it's time. Aunt May had always asked them about it and with each teasing question, they had laughed it away.

She smooths out his damp hair, runs her hands at the graying parts, the battle scars she loves rediscovering and smiles through it all.

In the morning, she opens the medicine cabinet to get his meds and stares at the pills sitting beside it. She thinks of the night before and considers. Peter calls out from the living room about missing the bus. She shoves the pill back on the shelf.

* * *

Children have never been something they haven’t properly talked about.

There had been constant teasing from Anna and May, co-workers, after party jokes but ultimately, it was never a priority for both of them. Gayle had once asked her on a distant Christmas if they had ever planned on having kids, and she had shrugged in return. Unwilling to discuss the terrifying possibility of becoming one. She thinks of Peter putting his own neck out in New York's chopping board every night and her 24/7 on-call career.

She doesn't even consider the possibility of being a parent herself after what her father had put them through. The thought of being a mother scares her. She had recalled Gayle'S overjoyed words when she had been carrying her then husband’s child. And then Tim left her when she got pregnant.

She doesn't even have to ask Peter about it. He can barely remember his own.

She supposes it’s enough to look at each other in the morning, Peter bruised but smiling in his coffee as he looks at her from across the table while she goes through the morning headlines. His feet teasing her bare legs, a sleepy lovesick smile and the gentle tap of his finger while she turns the page.

Of course, there are occasions at birthday parties and someone's child comes up to meet her; eager, with those big curious eyes and small hands, marveling at her bright red hair. And then Peter is there beside her with a plate on hand, chewing interestingly and amused at her. She feels a sudden longing of sorts to have a tiny version of them both looking up at her.

Sometimes when she comes home at a late shoot and Peter's left a note, she wishes there was someone else to greet her. Someone who will stay, in case the dreaded happens.

14 years of marriage and MJ considers it on the way to the local theatre. She's on the bus when she sees a tiny boy talking about excitedly to his dad about Spider-Man. His father laughs and kisses the boy’s cheeks affectionately. Something that she used to want from her own as a girl. But there were no kisses from her childhood, just screaming and yelling.

But those days are over. She had forgiven Philip Watson for them and he had died with that semblance of small peace. Peter hadn’t let go of her hand as they lowered the coffin. He hadn’t let go even as he was gently consoling her as her sister hadn’t come over for the funeral.

The little boy tells his father how he wishes he could be Spider-Man and his dad laughs. She catches the father’s eye from her sunglasses and gives him an amused smile.

Wouldn’t it be nice for them both to have someone like that? If there’s anything she wishes she could give him, it would be more love. She would do it all, if it meant he could have more love in his life.

* * *

She misses her period a month after. This had happened before but in the latter years, when the long stressful nights and shooting days had taken its toll it was nothing worth worrying about.

They had lain in bed one night in their early years of marriage, talking about this. In between soft warm kisses, Peter had reassured her, that their kids are gonna be loved so much they’ll whine about it.

Those were the days where they could still pretend they had a normal marriage.

The years had gone by, and the whirlwinds of countless monsters and alien symbiotes with the occasional superhero mess had made them both shrugged the baby thoughts under a carpet.

But she takes the pregnancy test kit anyway, makes sure to get the pain relievers for Peter even though he actively ignores them. His stubborn reasoning about his rapid healing ability, despite the number of times he winces in pain.

* * *

He’s not back yet, so she slips in like a thief with the kit in the bathroom. Reads the instruction manual carefully and follows through.

She waits for the result after, trying to count the different ways she’s gonna tell him if it’s a positive. The familiar sound of the window opening startles her. She’s about to go back to her script when she remembers the kit, but by the time she reaches the bathroom, Peter is staring wordlessly at the box.

“I—” she starts. His sharp intake of breath is enough.

“MJ, are you pregnant?” he starts.

“I,” she pauses, “I don’t know. I’ve missed my period.” She gives him a light smile to diffuse the situation. “Been there, done that huh?”

He stares dumbfounded at the box and his begging expression makes her drop the act and relents.

“Alright,” she walks to him, “I’ve been thinking, and I think it’s time for us to have kids.”

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting from him, but a definitive worried frown isn’t the expression she’s looking for. He shifts uncomfortably, runs his hand over his hair and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t think it’s the right time for us to have one.” He replies.

“I think we're ready,” she assures him.

“No,” he says, furiously shaking his head, “We’re not.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, confused. “You used to talk about kids. You wanted kids before.”

“We don’t need kids, MJ. We’ve survived without them for 14 years. We can do it for the next 14.” he reasons.

But doesn’t he get it? He doesn’t have a family anymore. She thinks about Gayle whom she abandoned with a baby on the way and she won’t let herself make the same mistake with Peter. She won't abandon him. She loves him too much for it.

“May is gone, Peter. Anna is gone. And you’re out there, every night putting your head out for the chopping block.”

“Are you asking me to give up being Spider-Man?”

“No!” she counters, because despite everything, despite the constant arguments, the long long years of missed birthdays and anniversaries, parties and premieres she knows Peter will never give it up.

Sometimes she wants to hate Ben Parker. Ben Parker dying and putting Peter in a place he shouldn't have been. But with every news article, every cheerful kid at the doorstep in their tiny Spider-Man outfit reminds her of what he can do and continues to do, she hates herself for even thinking of it. Where would the world be without Spider-Man? Without her husband risking off every night of every day? Without Peter Parker deciding to constantly put himself on the line for these strangers, for this city who had never loved him back?

“No, I want someone who will stay Peter.”

He looks at her tiredly, whatever word about to spill pulls back from his mouth. She continues, “I want a part of you that stays with me. I want a baby.”

He sits the edge of the bed, distressed. She watches him, wondering, “Don’t you want to be a father?”

She walks closer to him, “Wouldn’t it be better to come home to someone who loves you other than me?”

“It’s too soon,” he says, the words barely a whisper. “Too soon.”

“We’ve put it off for too long, Peter” she nudges. He doesn’t look at her, his eyes trained on the box. His frown still in place.

“I can’t.” he says.

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, “I can’t do this right now.”

“No,” she counters. “No, we’re already in it, I need to know.”

“I just can’t.”

”Why?”

He stands up from the bed. Pulls his hand over his face, as he paces around the room and up into the wall. He mumbles something, low enough that she’d have to coax it out.

”Peter,” she asks again.

“Maybe, I don’t want them to grow up resenting me like you did with yours!” he yells. The words leave his mouth like acid.

She stares at him in shock. She rarely talks about Philip and Peter had hated every inch of him every time she gets upset about it.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean look at you and Gayle,” he counters.

This time it’s her eyebrows that furrow. “What about me and Gayle?”

“I mean you guys are a mess.”

But his words bring forth memories and doubt. They circle around her head and the quiet fury it brings isn’t enough. Even when she slaps him hard in reply, it stings.

He shuffles closer, “Fuck.”

“I took a lot of risks in my life for you, I put my heart out for you, and every damn night, I pray you don’t come back to me as a corpse.”

”Do you resent me for those?”

”No! I knew what I was getting into the moment I chose to love you! And every day, I think of you, out there, alone Peter. I want something more than what we have now. I think it’s time.”

He pauses and the words that come out are enough to cut.

“Well, maybe marrying me wasn’t such a good idea after all.” was all he could reply.

She stares at him dumb-founded before she walks to the bathroom, closing the door on him and locking herself inside it. His words sink in and she wonders if she had made the right decision after all. She thinks of all the times Philip had yelled about how much of a burden Gayle and her were in his life. All those years of being envious of the kids with happy parents who showed up to school plays congratulating their princesses and flowers.

She thinks about Timothy looking at his infant son with regret. For a moment she thinks about Peter looking at their potential kid, disappointed and upset and hurt.

But Peter isn’t Timothy or Philip. He is a better man than the both of them combined. Peter had grown up loved and cared for. And Peter never runs from his responsibilities, even if it's at her expense.

She stares at the stick.

Negative.

She doesn’t know why, but the single line is enough to send her into a fit of tears.

* * *

He’s gone by the time she comes out of the bathroom. The negative result sticking out from the trashcan like a mark of defeat.

She pads over to the window, secures it for him and closes the lights. Tries not to think of him not coming back. Tries her best to get some sleep.

The sound of the window closing, makes her open her eyes. It’s 3:50 am. She closes her eyes and listens to him trying his best to be as quiet as possible. The sound of him removing his suit and heavy footsteps. The flick of the switch to the bathroom, where she knows he’ll see the negative result. The sound of the shower starting and the minutes passing.

There is a huge space in between them and she waits for him to jump over and tell her they're a team again. The minutes pass and she can feel his stare boring over her and hopes he'll stay and talk.

But at the last minute, he stands, tucks in the blanket to her shoulder, pressing an apologetic kiss on her head and leaves.

And she has never felt so lonely as she was 14 years ago.

* * *

He’s taken to coming home later than the usual which he’s attributed to the increasing number of a whoever-whatever-whichever doomsday event outside. She’d have shrugged it off but the fact that he barely sleeps on his side of the bed is something she’s started being concerned about.

She finds him asleep and half-naked on the couch, this morning. He’s got an impressionable black eye and an arm over his bulging stomach that he often hides. The bag of peas on his other hand, dangling off the couch.

She takes the peas and gets an extra blanket for him. In the kitchen, she starts the kettle. It’s hard to stay angry at him sometimes.

“MJ.” He squints at her.

“Hey, tiger.”

“What time is it?” he starts.

“A little over 8.” She says softly.

He lets out a yawn, arms stretching out dramatically.

“I’m gonna start making a pot of coffee, we’re gonna take care of that spot in your eye, and then you and I are gonna talk.” She says.

“I heard the word, ‘coffee’ so I’m gonna have to agree with everything else.” He says, his voice low enough to make her bite her lip. His eyes wander to the dangling strap off her shoulder.

“Well,” she leans closer to him, admires the way his brown eyes take her in. “That’s just one way to wake you up.”

He leans over to kiss her, softly on the lips. It always frustrates her when he restrains himself in these moments, so she wraps her arms around her neck. Hikes up her nightgown to straddle him and deepens the kiss. It takes him by surprise and he’s very aware that she’s got nothing underneath her nightgown. Automatically, his hands grip on tight on her waist to pull her close. She leaves a trail of kisses on his face, a soft one on his eye and on his nose.

He lets out a low gasp as she grinds against him. It drives her mad, the way she can make certain noises come out of him.

“And we need to have a really long talk,” she starts. He leaves a trail of hot kisses along her neck.

“About what?” he says on her skin.

“About,” she bites back a moan as his hands wander underneath, “The other night.”

“Which night?”

“The one with the stick.”

The kettle starts to boil and like a dose of cold water, he stops his ministrations and laughs nervously. “Well, you did say coffee.”

He gently pulls her off him to attend to it. She doesn’t miss the hasty way he pulls up his pajamas and walks briskly towards the kitchen. She sighs frustratedly. Somehow, it’s going to be a long while before they can start talking about it.

* * *

The long days at the rehearsals had been a good time to distract her. Every time she’d get her husband to talk about kids, he’d deflect and start making some excuse about being late to work or he’d thwipped his way out of the situation. It was getting infuriating, but every time Peter would come back bruised or bleeding, she’d forget about being angry.

The loud knock on the open door jolts her from her thoughts and Barbara Heinz. Barbara is a nice friend, albeit one of those overly friendly co-workers who seems to be more passionate in and out of character. She had known her back in their early Broadway days.

They’ve finished early for the day and she had dropped by to visit.

“You ok?” she asks, concerned over the darker circles under her eyes.

“Fine. Just the usual marriage troubles.”

She takes the seat next to her and pushes towards her. Takes the extra concealer and dabs in a brush and helps her with her face.

“That again huh?” she replies.

“Mhmm.” She hums in agreement as her hands work on her face. Barbara’s hands are always light as a feather.

"I’ve always thought your husband's a mess.” She starts. “With all the constant bruises and black eyes. Y’know the other guys used to make bets that he was in some sort of fight club, but he doesn’t seem the type.”

Oh, if only they knew. Even back home, she and Peter would try to get creative over what story they’d use when the make-up won’t be enough to hide the damage.

“And I know I shouldn't intrude or anything, but as a concerned friend, I think of how sometimes, he's weighing you down." She says. Oh.

"Barbara, you're a good friend but as someone who's been married for almost 15 years, this is something that we're just really working on right now. Just a rough patch." MJ explains. But Barbara eyes her sadly.

"C'mon darling, don’t’ pretend I haven’t been noticing.” She says.

“Noticing what?”

“I mean, didn't you guys lost money from that investment scam?”

They had. She admits it was pretty stupid of her to even let him handle it on his own, because money isn’t something Peter’ particularly good at handling. That had taken a lot and May even had to help out with the last of her money much to Peter’s shame.

“And I know you’ve started taking that rumored role back in LA?”

“I’m still considering—”

“CW? Mary Jane? Really?” Barbara scoffs. “You hated those jerks.”

“I know, but that was years ago!” she tries to explain.

“You keep on talking about getting a 4-5 year break a year or so ago. Whatever happened to that?”

She’s right. They had saved enough money for a home, a trust fund, and a potential kid. Up until Aunt May had been diagnosed with cancer, much to their devastation. They hadn't expected how fast it ate her up from the inside.

“Darling, you don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending Barbs. I just needed to work again.”

"That’s fine darling.” She starts. “But I just worry you’ll keep overworking yourself to exhaustion like what happened back then.”

That had been a terrible year. MJ had been working nonstop for a week or so. She had thought that if Peter could go on for longer, maybe she could too.

By the time they’ve rolled into action, the heat, exhaustion and emotional stress had gotten too much for her. Next thing she knew, he had woken up to Barbara, a concerned physician and Peter, holding her hand tightly.

“I just think you deserve a break and something better. I just hate that you're holding yourself back." She places a hand on her curled hair for comfort. She can hear the words underneath.

“We’ve been through so much, I’m not going to give up on him like that.”

“I know darling. I can see that, but you shouldn’t deprive yourself of things you actually want for this.”

“I do want this.” She says, hoping her words would convince her. But Barbara has been with her for so long in the business, she can recognize the line between a well-acted line and an actual lie. 

“No, you were going to do that investment thing for whatever baby you planned on having and now it’s all gone. All ruined and you have like what? A thousand dollar debt?”

She hangs her head in shame. “Sometimes, I’m tired of waiting.” And the minute the words are out, she doesn’t stop.

"C'mon, tell it to Aunt Barbs." she coaches.

“I want to be a mom. It used to scare me a lot y’know? The whole kids thing. But I started thinking of it more these past months and I try to sweep it under the rug like we had used to before, but now” she sighs, “every time I’d try to get him to talk, he’d run.”

She crosses her legs. “It’s funny because I used to run away from these kinds of things. I thought it’d be nice to just achieve all these. But being with him? With Peter? He makes me better. He makes me want to be more than this. He makes me want to dream more than what I used to dream about.”

Barbara smiles.

“And I want to be a mom so badly, Barbs. This morning, someone at the line made me hold their baby and I almost ran away with him. He had these cute chubby cheeks and curly blonde hair. And all I could think off is how nice would it be to hold one that looks like Peter.” She fiddles over her hair. “It’s just he wouldn’t talk to me. His aunt had died 6 months ago, and I’m helping him pull himself back together. But it’s just,” she sighs exasperated. “It’s hard.”

“Hard?”

“He used to talk about his,” she tries to find the right word, “life. His hobbies and all. We’d talk about it. He’d open up, I’d listen, and we’d figure things out together. And it's the same for me. But lately, he hasn’t been talking.”

“You sure he’s not having an affair or something?” Barbara asks. “He doesn’t seem to strike me as someone who would, but then again, men are unpredictable.” she shrugs to make a point.

But Mary Jane laughs at the bizarre idea. She shakes her head at it, bemused and frightened at the thought, “No. He’s not. He won’t.”

“You never know, darling.”

“He won’t. I know he won’t.” she says firmly. She knows this too well because he looks at her like she’s the only one in the room and she can feel everything with that one look. She doesn’t know how but Barbara hands her a tissue, and she hasn’t realize that she had started crying.

“It’s okay, Mary Jane.” She consoles her.

“It gets a little too hard sometimes. Watching and waiting for him.”

Barbara shuffles closer, rubbing her back as she lets her cry. “If it all comes down to it though,” she starts. “You’re going to be a great mum, Mary Jane. You just need to get creative at getting him to fuck you.” MJ laughs in between tears.

“It feels like he doesn’t want to.”

Barbara snorts. “Darling, he’s an idiot for not wanting to!”

They laugh. Barbara picks another tissue to wipe away the running mascara on MJ’s face. 

“He’s not a bad man,” MJ starts.

“I know.”

“And he loves me.”

“He does. I can see it.” Barbara agrees.

“I just wish he’d talk to me, that’s all.”

“He’ll talk to you when he wants to babe. I’m sure you guys will find the right time for it.” She consoles. "But you know, you can't always exhaust yourself for his sake. Darling, he has to pull on his weight somehow!" she exclaims. "When it comes down to it, you have to ask yourself, are you happy? Is he happy? Are you both happy?"

"We _are_ happy, Barbara." MJ insists.

Barbara smiles sadly. "You need to work on convincing yourself on that, sweetheart." 

MJ ponders on this as she leaves for the day. Is she happy? Every day with Peter has been happy. Even the terrible times. She thinks of waking up in the morning to find him safe and sound in bed, beside her, breathing. Alive. Peter Parker alive makes her happy. Peter coming home to her makes her happy and relieved. But is _he_ happy? She thinks of all the times she had to leave for the day with him in the middle of the bed, curled up in their sheet, hiding. Thinks of the furrowed brows she had to wipe off when he has terrible dreams or the way he frowns deeply in the morning at their table, in pain.

A knock pulls her out before Barbara holds out a bouquet of pink and red roses. The stems crushed so finely, with bits of dried blood.

“MJ you definitely need to hire a new bodyguard," she says. “I found these in the trash, with your name on it.”

* * *

“Please come to the play tonight.” She pleads as she enters the room where Peter immediately closes the window to his computer monitor quickly. She tries to ignore it when he faces her.

"What happened to your hands?" she asks, distracted at the bandages on his fingers.

"Cut myself on a glass from an explosion downtown," he says.

She nods, suspiciously. "So you'll come tonight?"

It’s the biggest night. The critics will be there as usual. Mary Jane’s comeback to Broadway. The show had sold out the minute they had started selling tickets and the producers had been very impressed.

“I’ll be there.” He promises. He gives her an enthusiastic smile, but she can see his eyes lower to the ground.

She puts her heart on his words instead.

* * *

The empty seat haunts her all throughout. She works her way through the first act, unbothered. But by the second act, someone’s put a bag on his empty seat and it breaks her a bit.

The play is a success. They all take their bows as the crowd applauds and the cameras flash. Her green eyes scan the crowd for him as they usually do, but he is out of sight.

* * *

He doesn't show up for the after party, either.

There are talks of film adaptations and possible roles, "would you do a reading for me?", "Vogue's editor want you on the next issue!", and it's so overwhelming. It feels like she's spinning throughout the room, except Peter's not there to catch her when she loses her balance. Where the hell is he?

There are people congratulating, kissing her cheek, Robbie hands her a bouquet of flowers, from the Daily Bugle. Betty walks over and kisses her on the cheek. They tell her Peter’s probably on her way and she tries to believe it. And yet, her eyes scan across the sea of well-dressed strangers from time to time. Nothing.

“Typical Parker eh?” she hears Jameson say to Robbie.

She waits for him as the night progresses, thinking he’ll still make it. Casually ignores the pitiful looks some of her colleagues throw at her. The snickers and passive aggressive comments from tabloid reporters trying to get a reaction from her.

She’s on her 8th glass when Barbara comes over concerned. “Mary Jane, I think you should get home.”

“He’ll come.”

“It’s been two hours.”

“He’ll come.” She says stubbornly.

The last few guests bid their goodbyes and she knows she should get home. She tries to hold it together as Barbara gets her a cab. She's inebriated enough to shift her focus from being angry to the possibility of another cycle of modeling when they reach their stop. The driver helps her out the door and she’s dimly aware that his slimy hands are creeping way below her back. But her head is starting to ache badly from the alcohol and if she could just get her keys, she could scratch the shit out of this creep.

At the last moment though, the familiar thwipping sounds bursts through and Spider-Man punches him in the face enough for the man to fall over. There are a few punches thrown, enough for the driver to get the message. They watch as he scrambles back to the car and drives off in a haste. She stands there unimpressed.

“Where the fuck where you?” she asks, her voice low with anger.

“Something came up.” He explains.

“They always do, don’t they?” she says, her voice laced with ice.

They enter the small hallway to their home, flicks through the switch just as he takes off his mask. She pulls off her heels as they make their way to the living room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I waited for you tonight,” she explains, “I waited for you. They were all there. Congratulating me. Liz was there, Robbie was there. Your terrible boss was there. They kept asking me, ‘Where’s Peter?’ and all I could think about is how you’ll make it.”

“Where were you Peter?” She doesn’t hide the bitterness in her voice.

He stammers, trying to find the words to explain his recent endeavors. The apartment hunting and asking Foggy Nelson about marital assets. Then a robbery had to happen down at the 5th and of course, it had to happen on his way to the after party.

“I’m sorry, MJ.” He starts. “I shouldn’t have kept you waiting.”

“I’m so tired, Peter. I’m tired of making up excuses for you. I’m tired of waiting for you to talk to me. I’m tired of staying up all night, while you’re up to God-knows-where. I’m tired of us being like this!” She yells.

“I’ve been waiting for you for the whole of our lives, every day and every night!” And she breaks apart.

Peter stares at the sight of her. And it dawns on him, finally. Barbara’s words circling his head like a vulture. An anchor and he know he’s going to pull her down with him if he keeps it up. Just like what he did with Ben, just like Gwen and every other child and person he had let down. The familiar sound his own heartbreaking but if it meant saving MJ from the weight of his anchors, then he would break it. He would do it all if she could have a better life than this.

He walks over to her and joins her at the floor. Slowly and cautiously, he pulls her to him. She doesn’t protest through her tears and he holds her near his heart. She wraps her arms around him and holds tight.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

* * *

Peter’s never been a morning person. So when she finds him up at their table the next morning. Slouched in his spider suit, staring at his cup, something is wrong.

"Hey, tiger." she greets him, tiredly. 

She takes her time with the coffee pot. The valley between them growing wider. She finds today’s paper at the counter and flips through it. There are tidbits about the market at a crisis, the robbery that Spider-man had stopped, a critics’ review of last night’s play. She walks over towards the table with her cup and points to him about the review.

"The critics love it. I mean if you had been there, you'd have loved it too." she passes.

"Mary Jane, everything you do is lovely. I'm happy people can see it. I'm proud of you." he congratulates her. She folds the paper, and for the first time eyes his weary form. A frown paints his mouth and the dark circles under his eyes doesn't help.  

"Peter, about last night." she starts.

"You don't have to apologize, MJ." he says. He wraps his hands on his cup for support. A shadow casts a glance on his face before he puts down his cup and gathers his own courage.

“I know you’re tired of me, MJ,” he starts. She looks up from her plate, his eyes not meeting hers.

“I’m tired,” he continues.

She had been waiting for him to start talking. To smash the sudden silence that had grown, and now she's not sure she wants to hear it. She lets the treasonous words flow in. She’s been trained for the worst news, this isn’t new. But Peter sinks the knife into her heart furthermore.

“I’m tired of making you unhappy. I’m tired of not being the husband you want and need.” He pauses, “And you deserve better than this.”

“Then be better,” she puts simply.

He hangs his head in defeat and it dawns on her what he means by being tired. He’s tired of being here. With her. In her mind, she remembers Barbara's words. _"Is he happy?"_ it circles her brain like a vulture.

She cuts through her pancakes instead, hands shaking as she lets his words descend. 15 years now. Where had she thought they’d be at 15 years? Happy, at peace, free from all the worries of the world? She’d have thought they’d both given up on wearing their masks and living somewhere upstate in peace. Maybe 2 or 3 kids even. Tired. That’s all they are now. Worn out like the edges of a string, ready to snap.

“MJ,” His voice concerned as her knife scrapes through the plate.

He places his hands carefully on hers. The rough calloused, scarred hands that could probably tear her to pieces if he tried, calmly wrapping themselves on hers. She can feel the weight of the wedding band on her fingers and it’s all she can think about. He pulls her hands down gently, on either side of the plate. She doesn’t even know what to think of it. She looks up at those glassy brown eyes, the purple skin underneath his eyes. Exhausted beyond relief. He’s thought about this for a while.

“This is insane,” she scoffs. He closes his eyes in reply and takes a sip from his cup.

“Didn’t you ever think that we can talk about this? Instead of you running out of the window every night.”

“What difference does it make anyway?” he reasons. “I can’t put you first. We both know it. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be unhappy as you are now. I don’t want to tie you down with me, with this, anymore. And I think it’s best if we...” he sighs, “should just get a divorce.”

The word comes out forced. The silence is unbearable. She blinks, trying to take in the words he had let out.

“You keep on apologizing and talking about how unhappy I am, but did it ever occur to you that I’m not happy when you aren’t?”

He doesn’t meet her eyes. She tries to reach for him, but he pulls away. It hurts but she makes one last attempt.

“It doesn’t have to come to this. We’ve been through much worst things.” She says softly. He looks back at her, a bittersweet smile that will haunt her and delivers the blow.

“I already called Margaret.” he says, a finality. "I'm filing this week."

She pulls back and tries her best to keep her face straight, but all she could feel is deep anger and betrayal.

“You never really know what’s good for you, don’t you?” she says in disbelief.

“MJ.”

“I wish I could tell you all the things people had told me for the past few months. I didn’t want to believe any of it. I didn’t. Do you want to know why?”

He stares.

“Because I know you don’t quit. And I don’t. We don’t quit. 15 years Peter.” She says, her voice breaking. “15 years.”

He tries to hold his stance. Tries not to break as she is, now. But the words fail him. Instead, he lets her. “Am I too much for you? For only ever asking more of this?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just,” he sighs frustratedly, “I just don’t think I could give you more of this.”

“No. You just don’t want to.” She lets her voice tremble, but a muffled sob comes out. She can’t even look at him.

“Am I not enough?” she asks, her voice smaller.

Oddly, he laughs, his bandaged scarred hands wrapping themselves above hers. “You are more than enough. You are everything I have ever wanted.” His voice breaks, and she looks up.

“Maybe it’s time I let you have what you really want.” he rubs his thumbs on the back of her hands, trying to reassure her, but it only makes her feel infuriated. Terrible. She had never felt so angry at him like this before.

“And this is what you want?” She spites, shoving her hands away from his.

“Mary Jane, please.” he pleads. It feels like it's backfiring on him and he's trying to pan out the flames he had started. But Mary Jane is a force. It's one of the things he loves about her. Her ability to burn through and persist as he does. But the words that she delivers are as terrible as a knife pushing through him. Directly into his heart.

“You really are the world’s stupidest genius aren’t you?” She says in disbelief. “You’re a coward. Maybe Jonah was right when he said it. Spider-Man. A coward. Is that what you are now?” Why can't he see what he's doing?

He frowns. “You think I’m a coward for letting you go?”

“Letting me go? It’s almost like you’re running out of this!” her voice rises as her anger does. He's trying not to be terrified of the way her green eyes burn through him. Marking him with words she's trying to hold back.

“I’m not!” he defends. “I’m doing what needs to be done!”

“What needs to be done Peter?” she asks angrily. “All I’m asking for is a husband who will talk to me properly. That’s all I want.”

“You and I both know that that’s not the only thing you want.” He says. She can hear the words unsaid.

"What do you want Peter?" she pleads. "Tell me."

For a moment, he considers telling her everything. The nagging fear, the countless nightmares he's dreamt up of and the image of every person he has ever failed. But the sound of a distant siren distracts them. He stands up without a word, as she watches him secures his webshooters on his wrists.

“I’m sorry.” He tells her, still not meeting her eyes before he thwips out the window and leaves her with the remnants of their marriage.

* * *

When he comes back in the middle of the night, MJ is there, sitting in the middle of the bed in an old shirt he had thought he had thrown out. The moon glows through the pane and he welcomes the darkness. He closes the window and lifts his mask off.

“You’re right.” She greets him, her voice quiet. “I was stupid not to see it before, but you’re right.”

He doesn’t say anything as he stares at her.

"I could make you so happy, much happier," she says.

He smiles softly and sits on the edge of the bed. The image of her crying at the floor and exhausted haunts him. "You always do."

"But are you happy right now? With me? With this?" she asks.

His silence is heartbreaking. And oh, she's tried so hard. He's tried so hard. They've tried so hard. This hadn't been what she had thought it would be.

"No." he shakes his head, defiantly. "Not when it's at your expense."

Damn him. It dawns on her that maybe he was unhappy enough to cut the ties with himself. So, she relents. If Peter Parker can’t find happiness with her, then maybe it would be right to just let him go. Maybe he’ll be happy as Spider-Man, alone. Maybe he'll be happy in the arms of another person, who could be there for him, in ways that she couldn't. The thought breaks her heart.

“Then I’m going to give you what you want, too.” She decides. “And if this is what makes you happy, if this is what you want. Then I’m happy to let you go, too.” 

“MJ,” he starts, but the words fail him. MJ sees his weary form and the sudden thought of him alone, and in constant pain makes her start crying again. He holds her to him and consoles her. Tries to ignore the shitty thoughts running through his head and heart. Tries to tell himself this is right. No more nights where she loses sleep to him. No more disappointments and long silences. It's not too late for her, yet. She can still have a life without him bearing her down. She can be a mother, without worrying about her kids dying early from some of his shitty luck. She can be everything she wants without him, fucking it all up. He holds her tightly, inhaling her strawberry shampoo, the smoothness of her skin, how homely she feels.

"Just promise me, you'll always come home ok?" she asks.

"I promise," he lies. 

* * *

The painful months that came after are a whirlwind of emotions. Peter’s started taking the morning newspaper and has been clipping out the classified ads for a new cheaper apartment downtown.

They barely talk anymore. He doesn’t come home after his patrol up until the sun comes up. And when he does, he sleeps on the couch. She starts getting used to sleeping alone, again. Not that that had been a problem before, anyway.

The disappointed silence grows further. The days pass by quicker. She takes up more roles her agent sends her. Accepts the LA role sometime due in production next year. Anything to keep her from seeing him pack up his stuff. The tabloid reporters have start mussing around Peter’s coming and going with the large boxes.

There are rumors on their marriage is on the rocks. She deletes all her apps except her emails and ignores every paparazzi question.

Everything under the household suddenly became his and hers. The boxes, the shelves, the volumes of books with littered photos, they never got around to arranging.

They had one or two weekends where they’ve decided to stick with the goal of finishing up the photo album but the constant distractions of explosions and some of the kinky photos back from the early days weren’t helpful.

She doesn’t like watching him pack up his stuff, so she mostly left it up to him on his own.

But one early morning, she had gotten up to find him sorting through their wedding album. She knows it by the glossy white binder and the pages full of laughing friends and family. Aunt May had helped them sort it on a distant Saturday.

Peter’s still in his spider suit, his hair sticking up, his back turned to her. So still, very still and she has the urge to come forward, embrace him and tell him things can still be all right, like the countless difficult years before.

But she doesn’t. Because maybe she’s not the one he needs.

He doesn’t turn the page for a while but she can see the edge of her wedding dress from where she’s standing.

She leaves him as quietly as she could and tries her best to go back to sleep.

* * *

She wakes up to his arms around her. The clock tells her it’s still early. She doesn’t know when he slipped in but she snuggles closer to him and he holds her tightly. Gently intertwines her fingers with his. He doesn’t protest even in his sleep.

The familiar click of their wedding rings, the sound of the ticking clock, the way her hands fit in his, his even breathing, and closes her eyes.

The sun will rise up soon and the crows will come for them. For now, she makes this one small moment last. 

* * *

Margaret’s office is a lot bigger than she had thought. Over the years the number of clients’ had gotten unbearable to fit into one storage sized office. She’d pointed this out when she entered her office the first time she had filed her papers for the divorce.

Margaret had expressed her surprise herself, then. “Didn’t think you guys would even do it. I mean look at you!” she had said.

MJ had only smiled sadly in return. “We had thought it be best for our current situation. I simply agreed with it.”

She stares at the document. Margaret waits for both of them to make a move before Peter pushes forward and takes the pen. She eyes the lighter skin on his left finger as he signs the papers.

He doesn’t look at her when their lawyer motions for her turn. He’s tucked in, eyes cast down at the papers. So when she reads it, a jolt of anger courses through her.

“This isn’t what I negotiated with,” she starts. Of course, she gets everything. Typical of him.

“Yes, but Mr. Parker had made some last changes with his statement so you’re in luck, Ms. Watson,” Margaret points.

MJ stares at Peter who won’t meet her eyes. He’s handed every little thing they’ve built over the years, the house, the car, assets all under her name. She leans forward and signs it all away. Every stroke, a finality. A defeat.

Margaret stares at both of them, as she finalizes their documents. “Well. congratulations!” she says.

* * *

He’s gotten almost all his stuff over at the new apartment downtown. But he leaves her the photo albums. He didn’t even bother taking the suits she had bought for him. That one hurt. He’s given her everything and left her with nothing.

She holds his camera in her hands. She’s always considered getting him a better-updated version, but he was insistent on keeping this one. It was one of the constant things in his life. And it’s the last thing she gives him as he loads what little he has in the trunk of the cab.

She hands him the camera, before she tells him, "Please take care of yourself."

He smiles softly at her. She already misses him.

"You don't have to worry about me, If you need me, I'm a call away," he says cockily.

She looks at him pitifully, and he doesn’t even know what to say about it. He falters.

“I wish things could be better.” he says.

“They can be better, tiger.” She doesn’t mask the disappointment on her tongue. “You just didn’t want to try.”

She leaves him alone with it after. Doesn’t dare look back to see his face as she closes the door on him. She’s afraid she might break.

* * *

Later that night, at the after party where the casts and crew celebrate another run when someone had slipped in about the divorce. They had just opened up the champagne when Elliot, had whispered something to an understudy. It hadn't taken that long before the room had known. One can only take the pitiful murmurs and whispers. The girls at the restroom weren't particularly imaginative with their accusations as she listened from the end of the bathroom stall, where she had been trying to compose herself.

Barbara had come in and had decided right there and then to drive her home.

"Will you be okay?" Barbara asks, concerned. She's almost glad it was dark enough so she couldn't see how glassy her eyes are.

"I'll be fine." She replies. Her confident smile, reassuring the other woman.

Mary Jane Watson comes home alone and stares back at the wider space Peter Parker had left her with. The empty bookshelves with the stacks of photo albums, when did the hallways get longer? She pulls down some of the framed photographs at the walls.

Despite this, she leaves the window unlocked, in case. Just in case. She briefly wonders if this is a habit she’ll probably learn to break in the future.

She can’t bear to sleep at the bed tonight, so she takes her pillow and blanket to the living room couch. It doesn’t mask his scent off and she pulls the blanket up further to hide.

She sifts through the news where Spiderman has once again, saved a bunch of kids from a collapsed bridge.

She turns it off, turns the lights off. Closes her eyes and hopes this is just some nightmare she’ll learn to wake up from and turns to the side.

* * *

She wakes up later at half-past 3 in the morning, subconsciously going back up the bedroom; opens the window wide enough and looks out sleepily at the window, in case. Just in case he comes in, bloody and bruised.

But the city stares back, the sky lighting up in its quiet routine. The distant sound of a siren and the murmurs of life dwindling down. Settling in its covers. She wonders if Peter’s made it to his apartment safe and sound. She leaves the window open and makes her way towards the bare bed.

She lies down, stares at the empty side of the bed and weeps.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the things I do prior to working on something is making an inspired mix. I thought I could share this chapter's [mix.](https://open.spotify.com/user/danniellecj/playlist/2C53m0noivka7EZBrZCahR?si=swpEqxZoRv6S7ntXaxmMhA) The chapter title comes from a line in The National's "Conversation 16." I'd love to hear your thoughts and criticisms. My tumblr is [@finnicksghost.](https://finnicksghost.tumblr.com)


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